"After all our pains we were near losing him, Sir Rowland. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. "Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. This time you cannot. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. As a dog eats grass. She had a better voice than I, and the rest I suppose is only a trick. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. Annabel entered.
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